


i’ll give you my heart (make a place for it to happen)

by humanveil



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon Typical Themes, F/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, it’s shippy but?? with more of a pre-feelings vibe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Everything starts somewhere.





	i’ll give you my heart (make a place for it to happen)

**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time, this fic was meant to be a fun little 2k thing, just to get the idea out of my system. evidently it didn’t stay that way, but hopefully 10k of baby eo and early feelings is just as appealing??? 
> 
> i’ve taken a couple of liberties with the canon timeline, but this follows eo directly after liv’s transfer to the unit (roughly a year _before_ season one). **warnings:** canon typical scenarios (cases involving adults and children), references to the suicide of one of elliot’s previous partners. nothing is very graphic.
> 
> i will tell you now that this is meant to slot into canon, so it isn’t a get together fic. i always thought liv and elliot were already incredibly intimate in season one, and this is sort of a glimpse into how they got there. either way. i tried really hard to finish it and i hope you all like it!

She transfers in just as they’ve caught a new case: rape-homicide, seems to be your run-of-the-mill pervert. Elliot gets called in at one, two am and doesn’t notice her presence at the precinct until Cragen exits his office, body in tow.

Munch claps him on the shoulder and leans down, half-whispers the words _play nice_ into his ear. He’s joking, his mouth curved and eyes mischievous. What he means is: don’t be a dick.

Elliot shrugs him off and stands, fingers brushing the top of his desk. He’s had a revolving door of partners these past couple of months, ever since Dave took his gun and ate it. He knows he doesn’t have the best track record. Everyone does.

_So what?_

“Elliot.” Cragen’s voice, loud and clear. They’re definitely walking his way. Don lifts a hand, motions toward the body behind him, and says, “New recruit.”

Elliot nods, smiles, murmurs a soft _hey_. It’s well into the morning now, around eight or nine, the last time he checked. He looks at her, at the baggy suit and the clunky shoes and the windswept hair she’s tucked behind her ear. Thinks, _cute_. And then doesn’t think about _that._

She extends a hand, says, “Olivia Benson,” as it curls around his. She’s smiling faintly, and it’s all nervous energy: some mix of eagerness and hesitance. Like she’s already waiting to prove herself.

“Elliot Stabler.”

Her grip is firm, assured. He watches as her gaze drops to his desk, to the open file, the photos of a women’s dead body: bruised and battered. Defiled.

She swallows, gaze lingering for a moment. Then she looks up and meets his eye, asks, “What’do we got?”

And she isn’t nervous energy anymore. She’s resolve. _Purpose._ He sees the switch in real time, the way it settles in: clenched jaw, furrowed brow, the determined glint to her eye. 

He’s done the rookie routine enough times, now. He knows better than to hope this early on.

_And yet._

-

It’s a major case. There’s not much of a chance for small talk, but they manage to find short intervals throughout the day. Have half-finished conversations that let them learn a little bit about each other.

Elliot asks her, “Where’d you work before?” as they stand by the break bench, coffee pot held in his hand and cups held in hers.

She looks at him briefly but turns back to the mugs, watches as he pours the hot liquid. “55th. I did a short stint in homicide.”

He hums, puts the coffee pot down and takes a cup. Reaches to hand her a pack of sugar. “Didn’t like it?”

She takes it, lifts her shoulder in a small shrug. “I requested SVU when I made Detective,” she tells him. Doesn’t meet his eye when he looks up, brow furrowed. Intrigued.

He wants to ask why, knows SVU isn’t usually a starting gig. But he also knows it’s not always a question people are willing to answer, so he leaves it. Thinks, _later._

Olivia opens her mouth to add something, but the words die as Munch’s voice calls out, his footsteps rounding the corner. “Alibi checks,” he says, arm held high above his head, file in hand.

A chorus of groans follows the words. Elliot balls an empty sugar packet and chucks it, doesn’t watch as it hits the side of the bin and falls to the ground. Beside him, Olivia sighs. Chews lightly on the inside of her mouth and turns back toward their desks.

“Back to work,” she says, resigned and quiet, more to herself than anyone else. Elliot nods, follows, sighs as he takes his seat.

 _Back to work_ , he repeats to himself, reaching for the casefile. Papers stick out from the folder: images and evidence, things they’ve looked at a hundred times. He prepares himself for a hundred and one.

-

“I hear you’re hard to work with.”

They’re sitting in the Sedan, parked on the corner of two streets and waiting to see if their latest suspect will return home. It’s dark, the road dimly lit by the glow of streetlights, and when he looks, Elliot can only just make out the smile playing at Olivia’s mouth: small and secretive. Almost playful.

He snorts, soft and airy. “Munch is full of conspiracies,” he warns her, matching her tone, and it’s easy, this. The talking, the joking.

It’s been about a week, now, and he’s already getting comfortable. He figures that’s the point, the reason Cragen keeps giving them these types of jobs. _Partner bonding_. And all that.

“I’ve noticed,” Olivia tells him. It’s said in a way that makes it obvious she means, _how could I not?_ and Elliot grins. Fiddles with the edge of an empty coffee cup.

“Another one?” he asks. There’s a store a couple hundred meters away. They can risk it.

She looks up, confused until she sees him tilt his head toward her own empty cup. “Oh,” she says softly. “Yeah.”

He goes and he gets her order right, and their guy never does show, but she asks him about his rookie days and he tells her some of the better stories and listens as she tells her own, and it’s nice. More than.

(He’s starting to hope.)

-

They look at five other men before they finally spot a lie in number six’s alibi, and they catch him late on Thursday morning, the both of them running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline.

Olivia chases him around the curve of 59th Street, a string of obscenities spat out under her breath as she speeds past, and Elliot can’t help but think how he definitely likes her already.

He catches up just as she’s got their guy pushed against the hood of a car, arms held behind his back as she reads him his rights. Elliot takes a second to catch his breath. Tells her, “Not bad.”

He’s smiling, small and congratulatory, the look little more than a curve of his mouth. Olivia beams back at him: wide and bright and radiant, and the force behind it almost catches Elliot off guard.

He thinks, that kind of beauty is out of place in the job they do.

-

By the time lawyers and paperwork are dealt with, it’s dark out again and Elliot feels like he’s operating on auto drive. He stands by his locker and listens as Munch taunts Jeffries, who’s still calling out insults even as she rounds the corner, the words eventually unintelligible.

Olivia comes up beside him and leans against the row of lockers, head tilted toward Elliot. “So they’re always like that,” she says, a little amused, and Elliot laughs, more air than anything else.

“You’ll get used to it,” he tells her, and he’s only a little surprised that he’s already thinking of her in the long term. She’d torn their perp to shreds.

Munch comes to collect his coat, looking at them both with an exaggerated expression of distress. “She wounds me,” he says, and Olivia laughs as she slides off the wall to gather her own things. 

Elliot shuts his locker, tells him, “You deserve it,” and walks to his desk. He’s about to say goodbye when Cragen’s head pops out of his office and calls his name.

“Got a minute?”

There’s no arguing. He sighs, smiles at Olivia’s quiet _see you tomorrow_ as she starts toward the exit, and walks to where the Captain’s waiting. He can only just make out Munch asking, _Anyone special at home?_ as Cragen shuts the door behind him.

“So?” 

Cragen leans against the edge of his desk and looks at him, a file held in hand: unmarked, the only give away a sliver of a photo that peeks above the top. Elliot squints at it, tries to make out what it is but can’t. 

“Sooo…?” He takes the seat in front of Cragen, drops his bag on the ground beside him. 

“Benson,” Cragen clarifies. “What’d you think?”

Elliot shrugs, leans back against his chair. “Still early,” he says, and it’s true. One case isn’t enough to go off, not in their unit. “Got a good vibe, though.”

Cragen nods, long and slow. “Think she’ll last?”

Elliot’s forehead furrows at the question. This, discussing the potential of transfers—they’ve done it before. But never this early on, he thinks, and never… like this. “Why?” he asks, and he’s already a little defensive. “You planning on getting rid of her?”

“Depends on how she goes,” Cragen says, voice neutral. He pauses, like he can hear Elliot’s unvoiced question. Adds, “Standard procedure.” 

Elliot’s eyebrow arches, words a curious drawl when he says, “No it’s not.” It’s mostly a reflex. Cragen gives him a look in return, one that makes Elliot think he’s missing something. It only doubles his confusion. “Cap—” he starts, stops. Says, “There something I should know?”

Cragen sighs. Steps off from the desk and turns away from him, drops the folder he’d been holding on top of a pile. Elliot gets up from his seat, mind already jumping to the worst-case scenario. 

He steps closer toward Cragen, starts to ask, “Was Olivia ra—” 

Cragen cuts him off before he can finish. “No,” he says, tone final. No ifs or buts. He turns to Elliot, and he’s back in Captain Mode: authoritative, definitive. “I want you to keep me updated,” he says, and it’s an order this time. “Let me know if she can handle it.” 

“But—”

_“That’s all,”_ Cragen says, same tone, and Elliot’s forced to swallow his questions. Knows better than to argue. 

“Fine,” he sighs, arms lifted in a half-assed imitation of surrender. “I’ll let you know.” 

Cragen nods, chooses to ignore the sarcastic edge. “Good.” He sits at his desk, looks at Elliot across the room. “Now get out of here.”

Elliot doesn’t need to be told twice.

-

Their talk is one Elliot keeps in the back of his head. He spends the next couple of days watching Olivia closer than he had been, is sure she notices even though she never says anything. He considers bringing it up himself but decides against it—thinks that maybe it’s better if she doesn’t know. Figures whatever it was she’d told Cragen is personal. That if she wants him to know she’ll mention it.

So they work. And he pays attention. And the first time he sees her with a live victim, he wants to call the Captain and say _yes. Keep her._

He doesn’t, though. Partly because it’s three in the morning but mostly because it’s still too early. He’s been around long enough now that he’s seen the worst humanity has to offer, and he knows there’s one more major test. One that can break even the most promising.

Still. He watches on the sidelines of a hospital room as she talks to their victim, writing everything of use down in a little notebook and trying not to stare at Olivia as she sits on the edge of the bed, vic’s hand held in hers. She’s talking in soft, reassuring tones, and Elliot listens. Can’t help but think it’s natural on her: the compassion, the empathy.

He thinks she’s different. The way she reacts, it’s different. He’s seen people do this for the first time before, knows the mix of emotions it can cause. She’s got the disgust, the anger, but she’s got a lot more, too. An inexplicable sort of passion, one that Elliot recognises. She doesn’t step back, doesn’t ask, _how could someone…_ or, _why would someone…_ Instead, she squares her shoulders and straightens her back and looks their victim in the eye when she promises, “We’ll find him.”

There’s no doubt in her voice, no room for argument. Elliot knows it can be a tricky thing, making promises you can’t always keep, but in that moment, he believes her. Gets the feeling that she’s going to do everything she can to make sure some semblance of justice is served.

He’s sure their victim gets it, too.

-

He’s right. Not that he’d thought he wouldn’t be. 

They work the case, keep working the case. He watches Olivia carefully, sees her go over every detail until she knows the facts like the back of her own hand, notices as she sinks deeper and deeper into it. There’s more than one occasion where he has to bring her back to reality; remind her that the job’s not worth killing herself over. She nods when he says it, tells him, _I know_ , says, _Sorry, it’s just…_ and trails off without an explanation. 

He wants to ask, wants to _know_. But he gets it. Thinks he does, at least. He’s all too familiar with the way some cases can sink their claws into you; understands how they can occupy your mind until it eats you alive.

Hell, he’d lost a partner to it.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he tells her one night, after a day of work leads to another dead end. His voice is soft, sincere. Meant to soothe.

She smiles sadly and says she will, and he doesn’t quite believe her, but he gets it. Knows that there isn’t a whole lot he can do; that forcing her to open up will likely get them nowhere. He nods, reaches a hand out and curls it around her shoulder, his touch light. Reassuring. Olivia leans into it, eyes shutting as he squeezes gently, her breath escaping in a long, low exhale.

They both linger longer than they should. 

“See you tomorrow,” he tells her later, as he’s leaving for the night, and she smiles again, repeats it back to him as he makes for the precinct’s exit, her voice much softer than his had been.

He thinks about it the entire drive home.

-

They catch him eventually. Or, Olivia does.

Elliot’s with her when she tells their vic the news, watches as the woman looks back at Olivia, eyes wide, wet, and grateful. There’s still a trial, but their evidence is solid and the guy’s an idiot, so no one’s really worried. _Thank you,_ is said once, twice, three times. It’s followed by, _Now maybe I can sleep at night._ Olivia smiles, and Elliot watches it fall from her face seconds after their victim leaves: replaced by something soft and melancholy, as if whatever victory that had accompanied their arrest is drained out of her.

Elliot knows that look. It sets off something inside of him, a sort of innate, protective instinct. She returns to her desk with a sigh and he follows, sits on the edge and looks at her. Stays quiet for a moment before offering, “You wanna get a drink?”

He tries to keep it casual. Light. Olivia leans back in her chair, arms reaching above her head as she stretches before falling back to her lap. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He shrugs, says, “It’s already late.” What he means is, they’re probably already in bed. A couple more hours won’t hurt. 

Olivia looks up at him, head tilted to the side, as if she’s trying to figure something out. She stays quiet, and Elliot half expects her to say no, but she straightens up only seconds later. Says, “Alright.” 

She doesn’t say anything else, just that. Elliot blinks, nods, says, _alright_ , back at her as he steps off the desk, his hand brushing her shoulder as he goes to get his coat. “C’mon,” he says, grabbing hers too, and Olivia gets up again. Catches the garment when he chucks it at her and follows him out of the building. 

-

They’ve been for drinks before, but only as a group: a welcoming type of thing, after they’d closed her first case. It’d been Friday then, the crowd much livelier than it is now, but Elliot figures quieter is better. Neither of them are in the mood to mingle, anyway. 

“Six years?” Olivia is asking, beer held in hand. They’re sitting at the bar, tucked close together at the edge, their coats thrown over the backs of stools and blazers off. Elliot hums, takes a swing of his beer as she continues, “I thought the average was two.” 

“It is,” he says, shrugs. He’d only planned on doing two when he’d requested the transfer, but, well. “I couldn’t walk away.” 

She tilts her head at that, like some type of silent agreement, and trails her gaze across the room, over groups of people, loners and couples. Elliot watches. Waits for the change in conversation. She keeps doing it, jumping back and forth between topics: work and home, light and heavy. Like maybe she’s trying to work toward something. 

He’s trying his best to be patient. 

She asks about his children, then, almost like a throw away comment, and he tells her about his youngest daughter, about how they’d caved and agreed to music lessons. About how he now comes home to Elizabeth banging at the piano. She laughs at him, asks, _You have a piano?_ with genuine curiosity, and it almost surprises him how quickly they can switch back to normal. That they already have a normal to switch back to.

It’s not until later, not until things have quieted, not until they’re more than halfway through their drinks that he looks at her and says, “It’s like this for a while.”

She looks up, tilts her head to the side, almost as if to ask, _what?_ Her hands are curled around the bottom of her beer, fingers tapping against the glass, absentminded. He smiles at her, and it’s sad.

“You never feel like you’ve done enough,” he says, sighs. Long and loud. “You catch the guy, you do your job, but it doesn’t make it better. People still have to live with what happened.”

She stares at him but doesn’t say anything, head moving in a slow, small nod, and then she smiles, the curve of her mouth something resigned and twisted. It’s not the reaction Elliot had expected.

He watches her take a swing of her beer, gaze dropping to the bar top as she turns away from him. A circle of condensation rests where the bottle had been, the droplets of water glistening in the light, and Olivia focuses on that. Is quiet for a moment, bottom lip held between her teeth. Then she looks back up at him and says, “My mother was raped.”

Just that. Plain and simple. She doesn’t turn away, stays focused on Elliot, on the way he’s looking at her: mouth parted and eyebrows raised, surprise written across his face. 

“Cragen knows,” she says before he can speak, and it’s like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. “I thought maybe he might’ve told you, but…”

“No,” Elliot says. He swallows, tries to taper the emotion that’s rising in his throat: a type of indirect anger, the same protective instinct he’d felt before, only stronger. He tries, “Olivia—”

But she shakes her head, as if to say, _don’t, please_ , and he can’t argue with that. Not when she looks the way she does: lips flat and thinned, eyes wet like she’s trying to blink back tears.

“Can you take me home?” she says then, and she’s already standing, reaching for her things. Like she’s in a hurry to get out of there.

Elliot couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.

-

He brings her coffee the next day—the good kind, not the shitty, burnt kind the place across the street makes. He doesn’t know why, just feels the need to do something nice. She hadn’t opened up any further, but she _had_ still looked upset when he’d dropped her at her apartment, and he still feels guilty for leaving.

“Here, Liv,” he says as he nears their desks, casual and absentminded. He doesn’t notice the nickname slip out even after he says it. 

Olivia’s head whips around at the sound of his voice, eyebrows quirked and mouth twisted in some sort of half-smile. His arm is outstretched, her drink held in hand, but she doesn’t reach to take it. Just stares at him instead. 

“What?” he asks when she doesn’t move, and her smile slowly widens. 

“Nothing,” she says, finally taking the offered cup. There’s a pause, and then, _“El.”_

He’s confused for a second, forehead furrowing at the name. And then it hits him. And he fumbles to apologise, or defend himself, or _something_ , but she’s already shaking her head. 

“It’s fine,” she tells him, and he feels a little like he’s being laughed at. She brings the coffee to her mouth and takes a sip, tilts her head toward the cup as she swallows. “Thanks for the pity coffee.” 

His expression drops. “It’s not—” he starts to say, and now she _is_ laughing at him, loud but not unkind, and Elliot sighs as he takes the seat across from her. 

“I want a new partner,” he announces as he reaches for the first file on his pile of paperwork. 

The only response he gets is a murmured, _sure you do_ , as Olivia takes another sip. 

-

It’s a full seven weeks before they get a call for a case involving a kid. It’s mid-afternoon, early evening. Elliot drives them to where the body was found, the alleyway swarming with CSU but thankfully empty of bystanders.

He takes the lead, clears a path for Olivia to follow. There’s a sheet over the body, the medical examiner standing in the blood-stained snow beside. Elliot sighs at the sight, prepares himself for what comes next.

“How bad?”

Their M.E. grimaces. “Blunt force trauma to the head,” she starts, crouches down beside the body. “Restrain marks on the wrists and ankles. Shallow stab wounds to the thighs and chest.” She grabs the edge of the cover, looks up at them as if she’s asking _, ready?_ “She’s malnourished—probably hasn’t eaten properly in months. There’s definite signs of sexual abuse.”

Elliot breathes through his nose, tries to swallow the familiar itch of anger. _Disgust._ It’s the same thing, every time. “Long term?”

Their M.E. nods, finally pulls back the sheet to reveal the mutilated body of a girl who couldn’t be more than six or seven. “Looks it,” she says, sighs as her gaze trails over the damage. “I’ll have more for you later.”

Elliot nods, crouches to get a better look. Can’t help but think _, she’s just a baby,_ as he sees the extent of her wounds; the marks that litter the now-greyish skin. The thought is bitter. Resentful.

He’s tense, body rigid and jaw clenched. Behind him, Olivia hasn’t moved. Elliot turns to check on her, finds her staring at the body: her eyes wide, unblinking, her mouth twitching in a struggle to stay neutral. He sees her throat move as she swallows—once, twice. Sees her force her eyes away. Hears her breath: shaky and unstable, heavier than usual.

“You okay?” Elliot asks, because he still remembers his first time. The little boy, broken and battered. The acidic taste of bile on his tongue. The way he hadn’t been able to sleep, after.

Olivia turns to him, starts to nod but stops, eyes fixed on the body again. She’s biting the inside of her mouth, cheek hollowed where it’s held between her teeth. Elliot knows she’s going to walk away before she actually does.

He gets up to follow, but he’s stopped by a member of their CSU, the guy rattling off details on footprints and partials before Elliot’s able to leave the area. He contemplates barging past anyway but decides against it, thinks Olivia probably wants a moment alone. That what this guy has to say is something worth listening to. 

He sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “How much of it’s useful?”

-

When he does get away, he finds Olivia a couple hundred meters down the block, standing on the outskirts of the police tape. She’s hunched over, half-hidden by the stairs of a brownstone, vomit splattered at her feet. She’s coughing, her eyes watering, and Elliot’s cautious as he walks toward her. He lifts a hand, almost as if he wants to place it on her back and rub small, soothing circles as she calms down. Instead, it hovers: close enough to brush her coat but not enough to apply pressure. 

“Liv?” His voice is soft, concerned. He doesn’t ask if she’s okay because he already knows the answer.

She exhales slowly. Straightens up after a minute and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. “Guess you’re used to it,” she says, the words sad and subdued. Her voice is raspy still, like she’s not yet caught her breath.

Elliot looks at her. Can feel the bitter laugh press against his teeth. “No,” he says, and it’s open. Honest in a way she’s not seen before. There’s a pack of gum in his pocket—an old habit—and he reaches for it, hands her a piece and adds, “If you get used to it, you should leave.”

Olivia takes the gum but keeps it in her hand, fingers fiddling with the wrapper. She’s looking at him like he’s said something strange, her forehead creased with confusion, and Elliot’s mouth twists to a type of half-grimace as he explains, “That isn’t something you want to consider normal.”

Her expression softens at that, like some sort of _oh_ moment. She nods, takes another deep breath, and it’s amazing, Elliot thinks, the way he can see her put herself back together: as if she can push past the overwhelming emotion by sheer force of will.

“Come on,” she says, tapping his chest with the back of her hand. The unease from before has vanished, determination settling back in its place; grit a now-familiar look on her.

She steps past him, starts walking back toward the crime scene, and Elliot doesn’t insult her by asking if she’s sure. If she’s _ready_.

He’ll get the answer soon enough, anyway.

-

“Where are we at?” 

Cragen stands in the doorway of his office, looking between the four of them for answers. Elliot looks up, sees Olivia do the same from the corner of his eye. Hears her take a deep breath, the pen in her hand dropping to her desk with a quiet clatter 

“Nowhere,” she says, shoulders lifting in an almost-shrug. She’s somewhere between disbelief and irritation, and it’s a shared sentiment—almost two days, and they haven’t got a single lead. “We’ve got nothing. The guy’s a ghost. There’s no witnesses. It’s like the victim doesn’t even exist.”

“Anything from missing persons?”

“Nada,” Munch says. He’s pacing the ground between their desks, throwing a stress ball back and forth with Jeffries. “They’ve got nothing logged that matches Jane Doe’s description.”

“Not that that’s a surprise,” Jeffries adds. She’s sitting on the corner of her desk, case file splayed out beside her. “Some of these marks look years’ old. She could’ve been a non-report.” 

“Any sign our perp’s a parent?” 

“Doubt it. No way an inside job would leave her like that.”

Munch raises his eyebrows, throws the ball back at her with added force. “What, are you a psychologist now?” he asks, and it trails off into a speech about humanity’s afflictions. About the prominence of perversion: how a depraved parent would at least explain why no one’s looking for their victim, how there have been countless cases of parents doing unspeakable things to their children.

Jeffries argues with him, something about MOs and patterns and psychological studies, and Elliot meets Olivia’s eye across their desks: can feel the sigh itching up his throat. It’s not long before his patience wears thin.

“Is this really helpful?” he says, and he can’t keep the annoyed edge from his voice: two days of no sleep and a seemingly endless string of dead-ends finally catching up to him.

They both open their mouths to defend themselves, but Cragen steps in before they can start. “What’d the M.E. say?” he asks, reminding them of the case at hand. “Jane Doe give her anything that can help us out?”

“She’s not done with the report,” Elliot answers, his tone flat. Unimpressed. He turns back to the notes on his desk, adds, “She _did_ say they found a couple of hairs on the body, but they’re useless with nothing to compare ‘em to.”

Cragen sighs. “Great,” he deadpans. “That’s great.” He rubs at his temple, starts delegating orders. “Take Benson and go to the morgue. Don’t come back until you’ve got the report. You two—” he steps forward, reaches between Munch and Jeffries to catch the ball before it can hit Munch in the shoulder. “—go back to the crime scene. Go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. There’s gotta be something we’re not seeing.”

The four of them nod, a silent acceptance. Elliot gets up first, pulling his coat from the back of his chair and making for the exit without waiting for anyone to follow. He’s a fast walker, but it’s worse when he’s agitated, and he’s already almost at the elevator by the time Olivia reaches him.

“Hey,” she calls. Jogging to catch up. She reaches out, grabs his arm to get him to stop. “You okay?

Elliot’s answer is on reflex. He stops, snaps, “Fine,” his voice sharp. He gets an unimpressed look in response, Olivia’s expression all but screaming, _try again_. He sighs. Says, “Sorry. It’s not you, it’s just—”

“The case,” Olivia finishes. Her hand is still on his arm, her touch light. 

Elliot nods. “The ones with kids…” he starts to say, but trails off before he can finish. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Can’t articulate the effect they have on him: the way they plague his subconscious, force him to picture his own children in the same scenarios. Over and over.

Olivia seems to get what he means, anyway.

Her expression softens, her fingers squeezing where they’re curled around his elbow: a silent understanding. “So no one can handle the children,” she says, almost like it’s a relief. Like she’s been waiting for some sort of confirmation that she isn’t alone in her struggle.

Elliot nods again, slower this time; his voice soft and breathy as he drawls the word, _yeah._ Olivia smiles, a sad, slight curve of her mouth. Says, “You know, a partnership works both ways.” She’s leaning in, like what she’s saying is some sort of secret. Elliot’s face scrunches up, like he wants to ask, _what?_ and Olivia looks him in the eye as she explains, “You can talk to me, too.”

Her voice is a mirror of what his has been only weeks ago, when he’d offered his own attempt at comfort in the same hallway they stand in now. Elliot smiles, thin and fleeting. Knows he’s unlikely to take her up on the offer but appreciates it anyway.

“C’mon,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet: _sorry_ and _thank you_ wrapped into one. He turns back toward the elevator, and this time, when he walks, Olivia is at his side: their step synchronised as they make their way to the exit.

-

They have court on the Friday—a hearing for a DV case they picked up a little over a week ago. It’s a moment’s respite amongst the non-stop bustle of the precinct: the media pressure attached to a high-profile case always enough to have Cragen kicking their asses. Never mind when there’s a kid involved.

Elliot meets Olivia at the courthouse, a cup of coffee in either hand and a little white box tucked against his chest. Olivia doesn’t notice him at first, her head bowed as she reads the file in her lap, but she looks up at the sound of his step. Gives him an odd glance, her face scrunched in a way Elliot can’t describe as anything other than adorable.

“Congratulations,” he calls out, as if it’s some sort of explanation. It does nothing to ease Olivia’s confusion.

“What for?” she asks, tentative as she takes the coffee from him. 

Elliot grabs the box with his free hand and holds it out, says, “You’ve outlasted my previous partner.” 

Olivia arches an eyebrow, her uncertainty waning as she sees the cupcake enclosed. She takes it with a soft, _thanks._ Fiddles with the lid and asks, “Your last partner transferred out within eight weeks?” 

“No,” Elliot says. He leans against the wall beside the bench she’s on, smiles as she swipes a finger through the brightly-coloured frosting. “He retired within eight weeks.”

Olivia pauses mid-motion, her hand held halfway to her mouth. “Your last partner _retired?_ ” she asks, and her voice is somewhere between gleeful and disbelieved; her mouth twitching like she isn’t sure if she should laugh or not.

“Mm. Seven weeks, two days,” Elliot tells her. He takes a sip of his coffee, pauses as he swallows. Then, “The three before _that_ transferred out.”

Olivia does laugh, now. Tries to stifle it but barely succeeds. “Oh, so you _are_ hard to work with,” she says, smiling innocently at Elliot’s look of faux-offence.

He tilts his head toward the cupcake in her lap, the coffee she’s balancing on her knee. “You got any complaints?”

Olivia brings the cup to her mouth. Tells him, “Not yet,” the words mumbled against the lid. She grins again at Elliot’s insulted, _yet?_ and lifts her shoulder in a small shrug. “What? It’s still early.”

“Uh huh.” Elliot’s voice is a deadpan, the nod of his head sarcastic. He moves to sit beside her, grabs the file that’s bending beneath the box. “This is what happens when you listen to Munch.”

Olivia’s snort is quiet, airy. Her eyes sparkling when she looks at him. “Maybe I’m just special,” she says, and it’s meant to be casual. Lighthearted.

Only Elliot catches her eye as she says it, and it’s like the air shifts: a sort of inexplicable transition, something that leaves only the two of them. Tension swarms, thick and palpable. The courthouse a muted backdrop as their eyes stay locked on each other. 

Elliot swallows, doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says eventually, too delayed to still be casual. “Maybe you are.”

A moment passes, and then another. Olivia is the one to break eye contact, though it takes an effort. She drags her gaze away, looks at the floor, their feet, the people around them: anything but back at him. Her brow is creased, like she’s trying to make sense of what that was, what this is. What the emotions swirling inside her mean. Elliot watches, like he’s trying to do the same.

The silence stretches. Olivia clears her throat, an attempt to dissipate the lingering tension. “You hear they made an ID?” she says, and the change of topic is easy, their job familiar territory.

Elliot finally looks away, his gaze shifting to the file in his hand even though it’s not related. “Yeah,” he says, and shakes his head. Quick and jerky, like he’s trying to clear it. “Foster kid, right?”

A futile question. He knows the answer. Their victim was an eight-year-old orphan, last seen a year ago. Little Anastasia Moore, they’d said. _Failed by the system._

Slipped through the cracks, my ass, Elliot thinks. The sentiment leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; makes him want to put the social worker they’d talked to straight through a wall. Olivia nods like she knows what he’s thinking. 

“At least there’s some new leads,” she tells him with a quiet sigh. “Hopefully it’ll help.”

Elliot can only pray.

-

It’s still morning when they make it back to the precinct, but only just. The squad room is busier than it had been the day before, detectives and officers hurrying between projects. Monique waves them over when she sees them, a pile of files tucked in the nook of her arm.

“This guy is a _sick_ _freak,”_ she says once they’re in earshot, dumping the files on the edge of a desk.

Olivia glances at Elliot before looking back at Jeffries. “What happened?”

“I called a friend from Brooklyn,” Jeffries starts. “You know, just to see if they had anything that might help us out. I told her our guy’s MO and asked if she could ask around. See if anyone recognised it.”

“And?” Elliot asks. He can already sense the answer, though. Feels the familiar hint of dread in the pit of his stomach.

Jeffries leans in, says, “They’ve got a file that matches.” She turns her head to the side and motions for Munch to come over. Adds, “We _also_ called Queens…”

It’s obvious what comes next.

“They also have a file,” Elliot says, finishing for her. He shakes his head, can feel the tension swarm his body: that muted, familiar vibration of rage that always comes with cases like this one. He rolls his shoulders. Tries to calm the storm that’s starting to brew inside him. “How many?”

“At least three others,” Monique says. “The guy’s been doing it all over New York for the past ten years. Maybe more.”

Elliot wants to laugh. Can feel the itch in his throat: bitter and humourless. Beside him, Olivia is staring wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what’s just been said. “And, what?” she asks, voice sharp with veiled anger. She’s looking between them, waiting for some kind of explanation. “No one picked up on it?”

“Different boroughs,” Munch says. Sighs as he settles beside them. “We don’t share files. No one would’ve noticed the pattern.”

Elliot swears under his breath, has to stifle the urge to do it louder. He holds out a hand, says, “Show me,” his voice hard: more of a demand than a request.

No one argues.

-

Thirteen hours, six potential suspects. They narrow it down to three and tackle the first one together, spend the rest of the evening collaborating alibis before they finally split the last two: Munch and Jeffries taking Brooklyn while Elliot and Olivia take Queens.

No one’s home when they get there, though the neighbour across the hall does come out at their incessant knocking—voice shrill and irritated as she yells about knowing what time it is; if they can understand that no one’s home or if they’re just that stupid.

Elliot steps forward, ready to argue, but stops when Olivia’s hand brushes his arm. “Don’t,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear. She steps forward, in front of him. Gets as far as, “Ma’am, we’d like to tal—” before a door gets slammed in her face, her and Elliot left standing in an empty hallway once more.

“Fuck me,” Elliot groans, low and harsh. He rubs a hand across his face, over tired eyes, and takes a deep breath. Exhales. Long and slow. 

Olivia snorts, more of a sigh than anything else. “And I thought Manhattan was bad,” she murmurs, shaking her head as she turns to look at him.

They could leave. Should go home and catch a few. But they’re under strict orders: the public pressure increasing as the days tick by. Elliot tilts his head toward the exit, a silent question, and Olivia nods. Follows him back to the car, neither of them so much as entertaining the idea of calling it a night just yet. 

The Sedan is warm, at the very least, and it gives them the opportunity to get some sort of sleep. They work in half-hour intervals for the first few hours: one napping while the other plays lookout. Waiting for something they both know is unlikely to happen.

They’ve creeped into the early hours of the morning when Olivia says, “You want us to be wrong.”

It’s quiet, but it’s not a question. She sits huddled in the passenger’s seat, her head resting against the window as she struggles to get back to sleep. The glance she sends Elliot is a knowing one.

He doesn’t look at her, but he sees no reason to deny it. “Can you blame me?” he says. Trails his gaze from one end of the street to the other. “I live twenty minutes from here.”

Olivia hums, soft and noncommittal. She turns toward him, back all but pressed against the car door. She’s staring. Elliot can feel it, the heat of her gaze. Can sense her questions. He makes a point not to look.

And then, “Are you okay?”

It’s simple. Quiet and to the point. Elliot swallows, hates that he can hear her genuine concern. That it fills her voice: thick and unconcealed, as if she could drown him with it. 

“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s on reflex again. A reaction ingrained. The sigh he gets in response is to be expected. 

“El,” she says, and Elliot thinks, _so_ _that’s_ _sticking_ , the thought quick and fleeting. He shakes his head, spares her a glance as the street remains empty. 

“Cases with kids—” he starts to explain, but cuts himself off when nothing else comes. “They’re different,” is what he settles on eventually, voice little more than a murmur. “Hit different.” He looks away: out the windshield, back to the apartment’s entrance. He doesn’t go into details. Doesn’t mention the way the anger lingers, the way it chews him up and spits him out: leaves him drained and empty and desperate to find a way to dissipate it. Doesn’t tell her it seems to get worse with every new case. “Sometimes I can’t control it.”

Olivia looks at him as if she wants to ask, _is that supposed to be surprising?_ Elliot can see it in the shitty window reflection: the arched brow, the turn of her mouth. He supposes he should give her more credit. Even if their current case hadn’t left him hostile and irritated, they’ve been partners for almost two months, now. He’s sure she’s seen enough to know why others opted out so early on. 

“I’d be more concerned if it didn’t piss you off,” is what she does say, and it’s so far from what Elliot had expected that it draws a laugh from him: airy and not quite amused. 

“Yeah, well…” He trails off, adjusts himself in his seat. There’s still no sign of anything changing, the street completely still for the past hour. He spares Olivia another glance and finds her rubbing at her eyes, exhaustion more than evident. It tugs at something in his chest. “Call it in?” he asks. “This guy’s not gonna show.”

Olivia’s response is muffled by a yawn. It’s answer enough. 

-

They _are_ wrong, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a victory. He walks into the precinct on day nine of their investigation and finds Monique waiting by the fax machine, the words, _Got him,_ called out only moments after his arrival: Jeffries’ voice loud and relieved.

He knows immediately what’s happened.

“You sure?” Munch calls, walking over, and Jeffries shoves the fax into his hands, finger tapping against the paper.

“Perfect match,” she says as Elliot walks up beside them, and the paper gets shoved into his hands, now: the results printed in black and white all the confirmation they need.

“Go pick him up,” Cragen orders, and there’s no hesitation. They spring into action, Elliot turning to look for Olivia as Munch and Jeffries prep to leave.

“Your partner’s in the crib,” Munch calls out, and Elliot holds out a hand, thumb up as if to say, _thanks._

He goes to get her. Finds her asleep on the last bunk: two thin blankets pulled around her frame and her cheek mushed against the pillow. She’s wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before, only the blazer’s off, discarded with the file that’s scattered across the cot. 

Elliot approaches, step careful and voice quiet. She doesn’t react the first time he calls her name so he tries again. Watches with a level of fondness he hadn’t anticipated as Olivia burrows further into the mattress, an unintelligible mumble escaping her mouth at the sound of his voice. 

He hesitates, unsure if he should touch her or not, his hand hovering above her shoulder. Eventually he drops it, lets his fingers brush her arm, the touch gentle as he says her name for a third time. She stirs, rolls in the bed to look at him: bleary eyed and groggy. 

“Elliot?”

Her voice is thick with sleep, her face scrunched against the onslaught of sensory intake. Elliot has to swallow around the word _cute;_ around the way his mouth twitches at the sight. He wants to say, _You said you’d go home_ , but there’s no time for that. Not now. 

Instead, he says, “We got him,” and that’s all it takes.

Olivia jolts awake, body shooting up, the blankets dropping around her waist. “O’Connor?” she asks, and she’s blinking in rapid succession, forcefully pushing aside the exhaustion that clings to her subconscious. Elliot nods, and Olivia sighs: relieved, if nothing else.

“Let’s get the son of a bitch.”

-

Their guy is some hot-shot salesman, known for his generosity amongst the people Munch and Jeffries had talked to. He’s the kind of perp that Elliot hates the most: inconspicuous, meticulous. The type that blends in a little too well. He could’ve gone his whole life without getting caught, Elliot thinks, if only he’d been a little more careful.

“There,” Olivia murmurs as they pull into his street, nodding her head toward the figure that stands just outside an apartment complex, cigarette between his lips and a carton of milk held in hand. She looks down at the fact sheet on her lap to double check, gaze flicking from the image of Jack O’Connor they’d printed from the internet to the man outside. It’s not exactly needed—they’ve all looked at the file enough to know for a fact that it’s him.

Elliot parks the car a couple hundred meters away, Munch and Jeffries in the one behind. O’Connor doesn’t notice them at first, but he turns at the sound of a car door closing, and he only needs a glimpse before he starts running: carton of milk dropping to the ground and spilling across the sidewalk as he disappears around the corner. 

Elliot swears under his breath and takes off after him, Jeffries turning back to the car as Olivia and Munch follow him on foot. They’re quick, but O’Connor had a head start, and it’s an effort to catch up: the city around them passing in a blur as they run, tired and out of breath. 

Elliot reaches him first, his hand grabbing hold of the back of O’Connor’s jacket just as Jeffries closes in on the other side, the front of her car trapping O’Connor between them. It’s enough to get him to yield, but Elliot doesn’t stop. _Can’t stop._ He pushes O’Connor against the hood, all his strength behind it, and shoves him so he’s on his back, so Elliot can see his face: his hand curled around the dip of O’Connor’s throat to keep him there.

Olivia catches up seconds later, disarrayed and breathless. She looks at him, at the way he’s got O’Connor pinned against the car, her eyes wide, concerned. “El,” she says, the name barely a whisper: lost in the way she’s breathing heavily. She leans in, reaches out, curls her fingers around his wrist. “Elliot, let go.”

Her hold is careful but firm. His arm twitches under the touch, her voice easier to hear now that she’s closer, now that she’s slowed down. She says his name again, her breath warm when it hits his cheek, and his grip starts to loosen, fingers uncurling until Olivia can pull his arm away.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, and Munch and Jeffries are there, now, stepping in. Standing on either side of them and reading O’Connor his rights. 

Olivia steps back and pulls Elliot with her, gives Monique room to cuff their perp. Elliot follows without a fight, shakes his head as if to clear it and takes a long, deep breath. 

“You good?” Olivia asks, voice low. She’s staring at him, concern lingering. Elliot blinks. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. Her hand is rubbing at his arm, over his sleeve: casual, like it’s absentminded. Elliot focuses on the feel of her palm through three layers of fabric and wills his heart rate to settle. 

In front of them, Monique is shoving O’Connor into the back of her squad car, eyes rolling as he sprouts nonsense no one bothers to listen to. Elliot flicks his gaze toward them, just in time to see the door slam shut on O’Connor’s smiling face. 

“You sure?” Olivia asks, giving the car a glance. Elliot nods, repeats his answer from before: firmer, this time. More believable. Olivia nods back and drops her hand, spares O’Connor another glance before she sighs softly. “Come on.” She nudges him back toward the way they came. “Let’s go.” 

-

They take their time returning to the car and make it back to the precinct last, walking in to find Jeffries standing at the edge of her desk, Cragen in front of her, his lips flat and thinned. Elliot catches the end of a, _he claims you hit him with a car?_ and stops to listen, Olivia doing the same a few steps behind.

Monique grins. “He ran into me!” she says, arms held at her sides as if to say, _what was I supposed to do?_

Elliot snorts, almost silent, and Cragen shakes his head. Turns to him next. “And that you tried to strangle him?” he says, and there’s something about his voice. Like he knows it’s true but doesn’t want to deal with it. Elliot shrugs.

“I never touched the guy,” he says, casual and calm. The look Cragen gives him in response is one they all know well: like something similar to that of an exasperated father.

He looks at Munch and Olivia. “You two got anything to add?” His voice is flippant, tired. As if their response is expected.

“I didn’t see anything,” they say, almost in perfect unison. Elliot stifles his smile as Cragen sighs, hand reaching to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“Get in there,” he orders, pointing between Elliot and Olivia, a, _and do it by the book!_ thrown their way as they move to where O’Connor’s being held.

-

O’Connor sits at the table in Interrogation Room One, cool and composed as he listens to their evidence, their theories. The partials, the DNA, the little things that tie him to the assault on Anastasia Moore. He refuses a lawyer, just like they’d guessed he would: arrogance or pride rendering him stupid. He never denies that he did it, though, and somehow, Elliot thinks, that makes it worse. That he can be proud of something so horrific. That he seems seconds away from _gloating._

“What’s the big deal?” O’Connor asks when it’s his turn to speak, his mouth twitching at their thinly veiled disgust. “My daddy did it, too.” He leans against the table, arms folded and resting on the top; the smile he gives them a sick, satisfied twist of his mouth. “It’s nature’s call.”

Elliot scoffs, swallows the temptation to reach across the table and grab him by the throat. He’s heard the genetics defence be used before, and it’s always been a load of crap: a futile attempt to gain a lesser sentence, used by vile low-lifes more often than it wasn’t.

He rests his hands on the table, palms flat on the surface, and looks O’Connor in the eye. “Bullshit,” he says, his tone low, the word drawled. There’s a forced smile on his face: too wide and more than a little threatening. He takes a primitive sort of pleasure when O’Connor backs up, just a little.

Olivia’s reflection can be seen in the mirror above O’Connor’s shoulder. Elliot catches it from the corner of his eye, sees her standing there: still, tense, her arms crossed against her chest. Her eyebrows are knitted together, bottom lip held between her teeth and gaze stuck on O’Connor. 

Something’s wrong. Elliot can sense it easily, but an interrogation isn’t exactly the best place to start asking questions. He straightens up and files it away for later, reaches for the pen and notepad and shoves it across the table.

“Write,” he orders.

O’Connor picks up the pen with a roll of his eyes. 

-

Cragen’s there when they exit the room, their ADA at his side. Any questions Elliot had for Olivia die on his tongue as Abbie sighs, her hand reaching to tuck stray strands of hair behind her ear.

“I hate the smug ones,” she says, turning to walk back to the bullpen. She rattles on about what to do next, and they listen. Follow. Find Munch and Jeffries waiting for them, neither of them so much as bothering to pretend they were working.

“How’d it go?” Munch asks, and Elliot shakes his head. 

“He’s blaming genetics,” he tells them. Rubs a hand over his face and inhales deeply. “Or some other pseudoscience bullshit.” He looks to Abbie, asks, “Is that gonna fly in court?”

He can feel Olivia at his side, standing a few steps behind. Elliot tilts his head to look at her as Abbie answers. She meets his eye for a second but looks away, and Elliot’s reminded of their first few weeks as partners: that hesitant uncertainty that comes with working with someone new. He’d thought they were past it.

Abbie looks at him and arches an eyebrow. “After what he did?” she asks. “No. But it might make things drag.” She turns back to Cragen. Adds, “Find out what you can about his father. The more, the better. I’ve got to go talk to my boss.”

She leaves moments later, the click of heels echoing down the hall. Cragen looks between the four of them expectantly. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, half joking. “You heard the woman.”

They turn to move toward their desks, John’s voice calling, “You know, I’ve read theories on this,” as he takes his seat. He examines a stack of files, pulls a few out. Says, “Genetic susceptibility, it’s called. A pre-determined inclination to crime.” 

“What?” Monique asks. _“‘_ _My genes made me do it?’”_

It’s said with more than a little disbelief. Munch shrugs as she takes her seat, going on about research studies and Lombroso’s school of thought; how biology is a potential explanation for criminal behaviour. “It’s a legitimate theory,” he ends, and Elliot snorts as he sifts through paperwork. 

“It’s an excuse,” he argues. “Same thing as saying your friends pressured you into it. Nothing _makes_ you kidnap, rape, and murder four children.” He looks at Munch over his shoulder. “O’Connor chose to do it because he wanted to. That’s it.”

“Now, now,” Munch says, holds up his hands in mock surrender. Elliot feels almost as if he’s being laughed at. “I never said I believed it. Just that it’s a thing.” 

“I don’t buy it,” Jeffries offers. “Elliot’s right. Petty crimes, maybe. But you only do _that_ because you want to.” 

Munch hums, noncommittal. He looks at Olivia across the room, calls out, “And you, Detective Benson?” It’s light-hearted, casual. “What’s your stance?”

Olivia looks up at the call of her name. Elliot watches her shift her gaze between them; thinks she looks the same as she had in that interrogation room. Curiosity gnaws at him again, almost too much to ignore. “I don’t know,” is the response: delayed and purposefully neutral.

She turns back to her laptop, after, and there’s a moment of tense silence before the conversation dies naturally, everyone’s attention elsewhere. Elliot watches her for a moment, the work in front of him forgotten. Then he kicks her leg under the table and tilts his head toward her when she looks up. 

“You okay?”

Olivia’s confusion morphs to something he can’t read. She nods, quick and unconvincing. “Tired,” she tells him, like it explains things, and Elliot sighs. He knows he’s not getting anywhere anytime soon.

It’s three hours later that their digging comes to an end. They find the records on Mitchell O’Connor: the ex-military man, turned account manager, turned pervert. Imprisoned at age thirty-two for the molestation of an eleven-year-old girl. Stabbed to death in prison, but not before the birth of his son. 

In the time it takes them to pull everything they can, the O’Connor in their interrogation room finishes his statement: opening up about his role in the murder of five children, one more than they’d expected. It’s just as bad as the rest. 

“He’ll get the needle,” Cragen tells them, and Elliot’s only reaction is to think that he should _._ That a man like that deserves it. 

When they finally get the clear to go home, it feels like a fucking relief.

“I’m tempted to take tomorrow off just to sleep,” Jeffries says, pulling her bag up around her shoulder. Elliot laughs, the sound a quiet huff of air. They’re all exhausted and it’s obvious: written in their features, in the tired expressions and the heavy shoulders. The slow, languid movements at the end of the day. He can’t wait to go home and fall face first into his mattress.

_But._

He throws his coat over his own seat, leaves his bag on top of his desk, and leans against the edge of Olivia’s. He listens to Monique leave and watches as his partner finishes up what she’s doing, files and other paperwork shoved into a pile in the corner. 

“You waiting for something?” she asks him, not bothering to look up as she signs the bottom of whatever form she’s filling out. 

He shrugs even though she can’t see. “‘s gonna offer you a lift,” he tells her, and that _does_ make her look up. She gives him a strange glance, as if she’s contemplating if she should. But it falls away almost as quick as it comes, a slow, small smile taking it’s place. 

“Yeah, okay,” she says, like she knows she wouldn’t win the argument if she said otherwise. “Give me a minute.” 

-

The car ride is mostly silent: filled with mindless small talk and gentle rustling, the occasional shout or bang from outside. Elliot spares her a glance at every red light, every intersection. Every time they get stuck in traffic. He knows what he wants to ask but doesn’t know how to get there. Wants to do his best to avoid being shut down again. 

He’s still considering how to approach it when Olivia says, “So who talks first?” Her gaze is fixed on the window, on the passing city, her fingers tapping a beat Elliot can’t hear against the door’s rest. “Do I wait for you to say what you’re thinking, or do I put you out of your misery?”

Elliot laughs, shakes his head a little. “Am I that obvious?”

Olivia rolls her head against the car seat and looks at him, the corner of her mouth curled in a tiny, teasing smirk. “You get this little furrow between your eyebrows when you’re concerned,” she tells him. “It’s kind of a giveaway.”

Elliot opens his mouth and then shuts it. “Right,” he breathes eventually, because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. He sneaks another glance and notices that she isn’t so tense, anymore. In fact, he thinks, she seems almost relaxed. “Put me out of my misery, then,” he answers, because they’re nearing her apartment and he’s kind of losing his window.

Olivia stays silent for a moment, eyes still locked on him. Then she lets her gaze drop, her hand moving to fiddle with the stray thread on her sleeve. “Do you remember what I told you about my mother?”

Elliot raises his eyebrows. Kind of hard to forget it, he thinks, but the only thing he says is, “Yeah.”

Olivia hums. “You never asked who did it.”

It’s soft and simple and it doesn’t make any sense. Elliot still feels like he’s missing something. “Was I supposed to?”

Olivia offers a one-shouldered shrug. “No, but…” They’re on her block, now, and she trails off as Elliot parks the car outside her building. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, says, “It was my father.” She turns to him, meets his eyes in the low light. “She was attacked in an alleyway one night. While walking home. He—She got pregnant and…” She stops, waves a hand across her torso. “Had me.”

She ends it with a bitter sort of smile. Elliot can’t help but stare, mind making sense of everything, all at once: from his and Cragen’s conversation in her first week to her reaction at O’Connor’s defence. His chest tightens and all he can really think is shit, _shit._

“Liv—” he tries. Cuts off. Then, “You know it’s a load of crap, right?” because it’s important that she knows he’d never think that of her. That whatever her father might’ve done doesn’t mean shit to him.

He’s suddenly hit with just _how much_ he’s grown to care for her over the past few months. Distantly, he thinks it should be a little more surprising.

Olivia’s expression softens. “You don’t have to—” she starts, but stops when he sends her a _look_ , a quiet, breathless laugh sounding. “I know,” she tells him. “I _know_. It’s just… complicated.” 

The way she says the word complicated makes Elliot want to go back in time and throttle Cesare Lombroso. Instead, he says, “Liv, I don’t need to know your father to know that you’re nothing like him.” 

She stares at him for a long moment before she nods, small and slow, her expression unreadable. When she finally looks away, it’s as her hand reaches for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispers, moving to get out of the car.

She’s barely moved before Elliot leans across the console and reaches out, his fingers catching her hand and curling around her wrist. His touch is gentle, tender: his hand warm against her skin. She stills, looks back at him, and he ignores the way the position makes his seatbelt dig into his neck. 

“Look,” he says, and he’s overflowing with words he can’t articulate, things he can’t begin to explain. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. He sighs, says, “If you want to talk…” and hopes she understands.

He thinks she does. She smiles, at least: small and sad. “I know,” she says, voice as quiet as it was before. “Thanks,” she adds, and Elliot nods; reluctantly uncurls his hard from her wrist and watches as she pulls herself together.

He doesn’t leave until she’s safe inside her building.

-

The following morning, he makes a point to get to the precinct early. Wants to catch the Captain before Olivia gets in for the day. 

Cragen looks up when he knocks on his office door, eyebrows raised from where he sits behind his desk. “What’s up?”

Elliot takes it as an invitation to walk into the room and shut the door behind him. He leans against the empty chair but doesn’t take a seat. Says, “Liv told me about her father.”

“Oh.” Cragen drops his pen, his attention entirely on Elliot. “And?” he prompts. 

He’s probably expecting him to say she should be transferred, Elliot realises, and it’s ridiculous, he thinks, because Olivia’s one of the better detectives they’ve had in a while. A _long_ while, if Elliot is honest. To get rid of her would be stupid. 

More than that, Elliot doesn’t _want_ her gone. 

“Keep her,” he says, and makes a point to sound certain. Convinced. Elliot knows he wouldn’t get the final call, anyway, but he wants Cragen to know where he stands. That he thinks she’s the right person for the job, selfish reasons aside. 

Cragen nods. His mouth curls, like he’s glad to hear it. “Okay,” he murmurs, and Elliot nods. 

When he leaves the office, it’s as Olivia is walking in, her bag hanging from her shoulder and two cups of coffee held in her hands. She grins when she sees him, big and bright, and Elliot arches an eyebrow. 

“I thought I’d get the pity coffee this time,” she explains, and Elliot can’t help the laugh that bubbles in his chest.

He takes the cup she hands him with a quiet, sarcastic, _thank you_ , and knows he made the right call. 

**Author's Note:**

> a quick note: canon only references three of elliot’s partners before liv. one was jo marlowe, one was dave ruzzetti (the one who committed suicide), and the other was some dude named alphonse (who retired). it’s implied he had them in that order, so i just sort of went with that and used a headcanon to fill in the blanks (that he jumped between partners a little, before liv. i don’t know where the hc came from but ?? i like it, and i think it worked here. so whatever). 
> 
> anyway. i hope you enjoyed this!! and remember: comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/elliotoiivia) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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